Honor and Duty
by Tk DuVeraun
Summary: Galaar, son of his Mandalorian Clan's leader, has a lot of learning and growing up to do if he ever wants to take his father's place. He might have a chance if he can stop falling into bed with cantina trash and Sith. (SW:TOR)
1. The Stage

Things were going poorly. Of course, that was a given if they'd called in Cerar. Galaar's father had earned them a reputation as cleaners. They fixed the messes the Imp soldiers made of good, decent fights. While they licked their wounds, Cerar would wipe up the remains.

_We get paid to do the fighting when the Imps can't handle it._ Taldin's voice echoes in Galaar's head.

He shakes the thought out of his head and walks out of his ramshackle tent. After glancing around the camp, he sits on a rough metal bench and pulls out a vibroknife. As he saws away at his too-long hair, he watches his brothers and sisters mill around the camp, preparing.

Jannok is meticulously polishing and painting his armor, as usual. Ty'lk stands at his shoulder, making mocking commentary. Rull aims his blasters and tests his accuracy at a light jog around the practice target. Off to the side, Favar sat with his head bent towards his wife, Galaar's newest sister, Nauur.

He sighs and chops off another hank of hair. Aside from a few tech explosions, she's the best addition to the clan in a long time. She sees him watching and gives a little wave before returning to her conversation. Galaar grins to himself. _This is one of the only times I get to see her without her T-visor._

"Good."

The word startles Galaar and he saws off a piece he doesn't mean to. "_Buir!_ Don't startle me like that."

His father just chuckles. "I was going to suggest you chop that mane off. How are you supposed to see out of your visor?" Taldin rubs his own shaved head for emphasis.

"Did you think I was going to keep it? I don't see how people can fight with hair spilling into their eyes," Galaar said.

"Yeah, if you were one of _those_ types, I might start questioning your blood." Taldin claps him on the shoulder and saunters off to speak with other clan members. As the _alor_ of Cerar, he keeps his finger on the general mood, especially right before a fight.

On the other side of the camp, Favar stands and moves to speak with Taldin. Nauur mimics the motion, but instead walks up to Galaar.

She holds her hand out for the knife. "You're just making a mess of it, kid."

He shrugs and tries not to stare at her long, red hair and perfect jawline. "I don't care what it looks like, as long as it's out of the way." Despite his words, he hands her the knife.

Nauur laughs and takes the knife to his hair. The movements are innocent and friendly, but her hands are like fire. At length, she leans back and admires her work. "There. Now when you take your helmet off for a nice girl, she won't laugh at you."

"Pfft, they don't laugh. They're mostly just impressed." He thrusts out his chest, polished armor glinting in the sun.

"So they're impressed by that? The _beskar'gam_ your daddy gave you?" She laughs and cuffs his head, as if he really were her little brother.

"Hey, I earned this. You know the _alor_; he wouldn't take it easy on someone just 'cause they're his blood." Galaar winces remembering the _extra_ training his father made him complete.

"So what are they impressed by?" Nauur's tone turns sour. "Your incredibly poor taste in women? Come on, Gal, stick to the clans."

Galaar frowns. "I'm not looking for a wife, Nauur. Sith and cantina trash suit my _purposes_ just fine."

She cuffs him again, expression serious. "What are you, nineteen? You should be looking. Get the kids popped out now so you're still alive to train 'em yourself. And you know what we think about your… purposes."

Galaar waves her off to try and save face. "I have plenty of time for that. I haven't found anyone who impressed me. I'm not going to rush it and bring in someone unsuitable to Cerar."

Nauur responds by banging on his chestplate with her gauntlet. "I don't know what the _alor_'s been teaching you about acceptable choices, but it's not what my _buir_ taught me."

"He says the same as you. And also keeps pointing out girls in Cerar that would do." He rolls his eyes. "They're my sisters! I can't imagine… with one of them."

"Come on, that's just an excuse. And there are other clans. You're not looking. Maybe our _vod_ don't say anything because you're Taldin's son, but everyone can see it."

"Let it go, Nauur. I get enough from the _alor_ without you parroting him." He looks away before she can see the _real_ reason in his eyes.

"Don't wait too long, Gal. You're strong and well-liked, but if you keep this up, things are going to go sour." She shakes her head one last time and walks away. About one hundred meters away, she pauses, looking down at the vibroknife still in her hand. Without turning, she tosses it over her shoulder.

Laughing, Galaar dives out of the way of a perfect chest-hit. He watches her walk, armor shifting with each step. He doesn't even notice his father's approach until the older man hits him across the back of the head.

"Don't stare at your brother's wife like that."

"There's no _like that_," he says in a rush.

"Like hell. She's his and that's the end of it. If you weren't mucking around in cantinas so much, you could have someone like her."

"I don't want to talk about it." Galaar's voice is sullen even to his own ears, but he can't explain that the other Mandalorian women are either _too much_ like Nauur, or painfully… not.

"Be sure you're ready for tomorrow. I don't want to scrape you up off the floor because you got distracted."

* * *

Galaar's face is stiff, set in a tight frown underneath his visor. At the edge of the camp, he stands at his father's shoulder, watching everyone head to their beds. "They set us up for a slaughter."

"I know better than to trust Imps. They knew about those munitions."

"You kept most of us standing."

Taldin grunts. "Most." He taps the breastplate in Galaar's hands with the back of his gauntlet. "Not all. My children aren't cannon fodder."

Galaar claps his father on the shoulder and then clomps through the camp to the repair shop. He's tired and aching, but Jannok wouldn't rest easy with his armor scarred and broken.

He sets it on the first durasteel table and carefully removes the straps and fixtures. Then he starts cleaning. Once he's picked out the shrapnel and sealed the break, he'll paint it and… Galaar squeezes his eyes tight against the emotion. He clenched his hand into a fist and slammed his gauntlet into the table, adding to the wear and tear.

The tink-clink of metal on metal breaks the silence that followed his outburst. Galaar turns his head and sees Nauur at the far table. Her t-visor is off, but it's her husband's she's working on. Her face is blank and the overhead lights make her skin look even more yellow than her normal hue.

Galaar picks up Jannok's armor and takes a step towards her - working with her might take the bite out, but then his eyes focus on Favar's helmet. The bottom section and all of the connectors are missing, the edge is charred and straight: cut by a lightsaber.

He lets out a breath that shudders and shakes his entire chest. _Jetii_… He looks away from her, sets the breastplate down and notices his hands are shaking. Galaar focuses on his repair work. He doesn't know what to think. Can't know what to do next, especially not with… her.

After an hour, Galaar gets up to retrieve the paint, however, he's just in time to catch Nauur finally breaking. She starts sobbing, quiet at first, but raising in volume. Her face is pressed into the front of Favar's t-visor, but even what little Galaar can seen is etched with pain.

He leaves silently. Jannok's honor could wait for Nauur's grief.


	2. Reaction

Taldin addresses the camp at dawn.

_Though, addresses, seems a little much, he's just standing there_. Galaar, thinks, staring up at his father. The silent pose is enough to seep through the entire camp, though. One after another his brothers wakes up, dons his armor and stands, silent, waiting.

Nauur stands near the front of the assemblage. Her helmet is under her arm and her face is solid, unlined by the grief that must still rage inside her. Galaar's heart hurts for her, for the facade she must wear.

_And, honestly, for myself. I can't compete with a ghost. Not that I ever had a chance, but now I'm just pathetic._ He winces and squeezes his eyes shut for a moment_. How pathetic am I to be thinking of myself at a time like this_?

The sun is barely over the hills when the last member of Cerar stands in the common area. Taldin slams his gauntlet open-handed against his breastplate and the responding sound is like thunder. He turns his head pointedly towards the East, where the Imps have their camp.

Without a single word, Taldin turns and returns to the command tent. Galaar follows, along with two or three of Cerar's most trusted men. They stand in a semicircle around the holomap of the terrain.

"It'll have to be a small job. Infiltration in, explosions out."

A chorus of nods.

"Nauur, Galaar, myself… We do want vengeance, but we have to get in and out alive. I'm leaving the last four slots up to you." He points at his lieutenants. "I'll leave you to confer." He gestures for Galaar to follow him and steps out.

"What is it, _alor?_"

"Nauur has a soft-spot for you, since she's also an _alor_'s _ad_. I need you to talk to her and make sure she can handle this. I'm trusting you to not let your _problem_ get in the way."

It's not a question, or a doubt, just acknowledgement, so Galaar only nods before walking off to find her.

He finds her quickly - she's holed up in the workshop, though this time she's painting her own armor rather than… He shakes his head and then approaches her. His hand hovers over the fresh paint as she applies it elsewhere. Gold and green. _Vengeance_ and _duty._ It mirrors his own except for the prominent grey border around each of the patterns. _Mourning_.

"Hey." It is utterly inadequate, but there was no way to express his sympathy without insulting her or Favar's memory.

"He died honorably. Protecting his family. I shouldn't be sad." Her fingers hover over the drying paint, but don't touch it.

"I... nobody expects you not to grieve, Nauur."

"It's an insult to everything he did." Her gauntlet creaks as her hand clenches into a fist.

Galaar shakes his head. "You're not shutting down. And we're paying the Imp bastards back for it. It's all he could have asked for."

"We're gonna give 'em hell."

"Yeah. We'll make 'em pay."

* * *

Galaar grins under his T-visor. Catching Imps unaware in their short pants is a pleasure he rarely has, what with Mandalore buddying up with the Emperor. He savors the moment, firing his blaster in a defensive line. He follows his father's bright armor with Nauur a step behind him.

Taldin breaks down the door to commander's office with a single, mechanically enhanced punch. Faux-wood fragments and splinters fly through the air, bouncing off of the professional _beskar'gam_.

The Major cowers behind his desk, face red and eyes-wide. "H-how dare you! Barbarians! I command that you leave at once!"

Taldin grabs the man by the neck and holds him against the wall. "You don't give us orders anymore."

Galaar watches the door, his blaster primed and ready. Through his sub-vocals he hears the others secure each of the adjoining rooms. He nods to Nauur.

She steps forward, chin held high and whips him across the face with her pistol. He sputters from pain, but before he can get another word out, she kills him with a single blaster shot between the eyes. Her entire body shakes as she watches him slide to the floor, a sick trail of blood left on the wall behind him. "This is better than you deserve."

Taldin simply nods and leaves the room.

Galaar pats her on the shoulder, the metal of their armor clanking together. As they approach the exit, he silently mutters into his sub-vocals. "Charges armed?"

"And ready."

"Let's go."

They stride out, heads held high. The others meet them some 200 meters from the building. Taldin sets off the charges and they keep walking, the flaming remains crashing and burning behind them.

* * *

"No sanctions from Mandalore, then?"

Taldin shrugs and rubs his hand over his shaved head. "I know the Imps complained, but I didn't hear anything. All the same, we can't really risk working in the Empire after that."

"But there's no way to prove it was us." Galaar kicks his feet up on another chair, the metal boots grinding and scoring the chair seat.

"If someone wants to start a problem, who knows what the _dar'jetii_ can turn up. We're better off not pushing our luck."

"Our luck? What luck! Our brothers _died_ because they refused to be honest with us. They broke the contract!" Galaar slams his fist into the table, the hydraulics in his armor wheezing from the force.

"Imps have no honor and _dar'jetii_ even less." Taldin scoffs. "I have a new contract in the works with the Hutts."

"The Hutts?" Galaar scoffs and pulls off his T-visor just to spit in the corner. He slams it back onto his head. "Do we really want _that_ bad taste in our mouths?"

Taldin rubs his head again. "The clan's grown a lot in the last year. We need to support the _ade_. It's steady work. We need to do what's best for our people."

"_Is_ this what's best?"

"...We'll see, won't we? At least the Hutts don't pretend to have honor."


	3. Trouble

After a year of working for Hutts, Galaar is more than happy to have something to celebrate, even if it's his own 20th birthday. He and his brothers drink… and drink… and drink. Six glasses down, Galaar staggers over to Nauur, who is sitting alone in the corner.

"You shouldn't be sitting alone," he says.

She ignored it and cuffed the side of his head. Nauur grabs his arm and helps him onto the rickety chair. "Twenty, eh, birthday boy?"

"Hard to believe, right? Almost as old as _you_ now." He chuckles when he realizes it makes no sense. _I could never catch up, duh._

"And still without a woman." Nauur jabs him in the side. "The _alor_ must be so disappointed in you." She laughs and takes a long draw from her tankard.

"Hell, don't remind me…" He shudders. "He's beat me over the head with it at least _six times_ today."

She smacks her hands loudly against her tankard. "Has he passed you the holoalbum yet? The one with all of the single girls in the clan?"

_Are you in it?_ He thinks, but the words that come out of his mouth are, "...He's got an entire _album_?"

Nauur's laughter rocks her body back and forth, her red hair swishing with the motion. "Of course he does! The _alor's_ pass it around when their boys drag their feet. They never have that problem with daughters," she adds in a sing-song voice.

Galaar presses his face into the table. "Aww, kriff… I can't. I just, can't."

"Don't be like that." Nauur claps him on the shoulder. "You're a sweet kid. Terrible aim, but a heart of gold.

"That not it. I don't want any of them; I'm already in love with someone." He grabs at the air, trying to pull the words back into his mouth.

"Well shit, Gal, get on that. Or under that. Whatever you're into. I'm sure you already know." She laughs too loud and then leans in. "Come on. Tell me who it is."

_Don't say it. Don't say it._ He puts his hands over his mouth, but it betrays him. "It's you."

Nauur freezes. After a moment, she slides her chair away. She looks up and around the room, trying to see if anyone overheard. Once she realizes everyone has their backs to them, she laughs loud enough to be heard across the drinking hall. "Fine, don't tell me." She stands, but the force that knocks over her chair betrays her feelings. "Make sure you find your _own_ bed before you pass out. No wandering off to some civvies."

"Nauur…" He reaches one hand out to her "I… don't go. I'm serious."

"You shouldn't be."

* * *

Half-blind and with a stampede of nerfs tromping around his head, Galaar groans before staggering out of bed. Despite what is possibly the worst hangover of his life, his conversation with Nauur from the night before is crystal clear in his memory.

_What am I gonna do when I see her again..?_

He doesn't wait long for the answer. Head pounding, he nevertheless drags himself into the machine shop to refinish the fasteners on his breast plate. He stretches his shoulders, the reason for the adjustments, as he enters the shop.

Nauur's in the middle of the large durasteel bar that spans the back wall of the shop. Galaar can't see what she's working on, but it's undoubtedly blasters. Nauur can't handle the simplest datapad, but the most advanced blaster may as well be a toy in her hands.

Galaar grabs his armor out of one of the large, tan storage lockers and joins Nauur at the counter. He pulls a few tools out and drops them onto the metal with a clatter… and then reaches for his head as the pain spikes. "How much did I drink last night..?"

She grins, wide and carefree, the first such smile he's seen on her face since Favar died all those months ago.

His heart aches for her.

"How much do you weigh, Gal? Because I think it was twice that." She laughs and then turns her tiny blowtorch back on the metal in her hands.

"Ugh, yeah, probably something like that." He massages his forehead and then tries to meet her eye. "Look, Nauur… About what I said…"

"Don't worry about it, Gal. Everyone says things they don't mean to when they're drunk. That's why we keep it in the clan." She nods at him after she says the words, but doesn't look up from her work.

"The thing is… I did mean it, though. I can't look through that holoalbum when the person I want is right here."

She kills the torch and sighs before turning her head to face him. A strand of red hair falls across her cheek and it takes everything in him not to brush it away.

"I know that's how you feel, Galaar. I've known the whole time. I was hoping that when it was clear I wasn't interested, you'd get over it. Actually, no, I was hoping you'd fall madly in love with someone just as crazy about you and then laugh about ever giving me a second look. So maybe you meant the words, but you didn't mean to say them."

The forthright rejection stings. "And you don't feel… Not even a little?"

"I can't think of you as anything other than a little brother. Our personalities just mesh _that_ way, and even if that wasn't a problem, well, you knew Favar. You're not even the same species. I have a taste and, well, it's not human." She grins, trying to to make light of the conversation, but it's obviously strained with the wrinkles in her forehead.

"Are you sure, have you ever-"

"Gal, stop."

"But-"

"You want another reason? I can't have children. It's bad enough as it is, but if I was the future _alor's_ wife? Completely unacceptable."

Galaar opens and closes his mouth several times, trying desperately to think of some argument to sway her.

She doesn't give him a chance.

"This is your job, no, your _life_. You need to get married, have some kids and set a _good_ example for the clan. We _need_ it. Especially now that we're stuck working for those honorless pieces of filth."

Galaar feels the shame before the next words even leave his mouth. "What if I did marry someone else?"

Nauur's jaw drops and she stares at him as if she'd never seen him before. "I knew you had it bad, but this is just… I guess I have no choice then. I'm going to have to go back to my old clan."

"No, don't do that. Just forget I said anything."

"I can't forget, Gal! You've been making eyes at me since the day I joined Cerar. This isn't going to go away easily and certainly not when you still see me every day." She disconnects the torch and returns it to the tool shelf before packing up her blasters.

"You leaving won't help. You're a _part_ of Cerar now. You can't abandon your family."

"I have a responsibility to do what's best for the clan. And the the clan needs you to stop messing around and take this seriously, which you can't do with me here."

"Nauur-"

"Gal, you suggested that we have an affair! How could you even think that was a good idea?"

"I just really love you!"

"If that were true, you'd respect my feelings."

"I… Don't go. Please."

She says nothing else, just walks away. At the exit, she turns and sees Galaar a step behind her, armor laying out and abandoned. "Can't you even see yourself?"


	4. Impressions

With Nauur gone, Galaar throws himself into his jobs. Not because it's the right thing, not because it's what he should have been doing all along, no, it's expressly to forget about her. He knows. Knows he's terrible, but he can't help himself.

The weak fare the Hutts pass them only makes it worse. With their insistence on remaining neutral in the war between the Imps and the Republic, there's barely anything more challenging than basic guard duty. He savors the fights he gets, but they're few and far between. For a group with as many enemies as the Cartel, they sure couldn't give Cerar enough to do.

Running errands and scaring people doesn't satisfy the hunger for battle, doesn't fill up the hole he tries to pretend isn't there.

So then he tries to fill it with booze. Not that it helps, but at least it lets him forget. After the first month, he stops drinking with his brothers and settles into a routine of rotating through Nar Shaddaa's cantina track. Drinking through the straw in his t-visor doesn't feel the same, but he's not there to enjoy himself anyway.

He taps the fingers of his gauntlets in a broken rhythm against the glass and kicks the table legs every now and then for good measure. He's a little drunk, but only just started for the night. Dancers and other patrons avoid him like the plague, but he doesn't mind. With the way he feels, he might as well be.

"Well are you not pathetic?" The voice is metallic, fake and just strange enough to pique Galaar's interest.

He tilts his head up and sees a flesh and blood _dar'jetii_ staring down at him over her breathing mask. Her hair is red and long like Nauur's, but her eyes are cold and unkind with a thick line of black tattooing around them. Her face and the sabers clipped to her hips mark her as Sith, but her coat is Imperial Special Forces.

"The hell do you want, Sith?"

She kicks the chair nearest her out of the way, as if to startle him. "I _had_ discussed hiring Cerar with your clan father, but I don't keep drunkards with blasters around my men." She takes a break from looking down her nose at him to look him over from head to foot, pausing occasionally, with obvious skin tightening around her eyes.

Galaar winces inside his armor. He's hasn't seen a mirror in a few days, but he knows his armor is worn with chipped paint and superficial gouges. It wouldn't mean much to a common thug, but as a Mandalorian… He mentally shook the thought away and scowled under his helmet. Who was this _dar'jetii_ to judge him? "I don't think you'll find Cerar interested in being dogs for the Empire, Sith."

"Do not presume to speak for your clan father." She worries at the jaw of her mask with two gloved fingers. "He spoke so highly of you. It is obvious now that he is blinded by blood ties. By all rights, he should be ashamed of you." She shrugs and turns her torso away from him. "I must arrange to cancel this contract with him."

"He's not blinded by anything," Galaar growls at her. "Don't you talk about my father like that."

"Aside from his glaring lack of perspective where you are concerned, I find the man quite skilled and honorable. You, not so much."

Galaar pushes his glass away. "I don't care what some stuck-up Sith bitch thinks about me."

"You should, as you just lost for your clan a great hunt and well-paying job."

"Because you took one look at me and assumed I wasn't any good." He curls his hands into fists.

She holds up one hand and ticks off her fingers. "You are drunk. You are in a cantina. You are unkempt, your _armor_ is is glaring need of repairs, you presumed to speak for your clan father and you insinuated I treat my well-paid associates as dogs."

"Well your general level of contempt is doing _so_ much to correct my initial impression of _you_."

She eyes him for a moment, skin tight around her eyes, pulling her tattoos into thin lines. "Taldin and I spent too long arranging this contract for you to throw it away so easily. Consider yourself lucky." The Sith took a datapad out of her heavy coat and tossed it onto the table in front of him. "That will populate with coordinates and instructions if you want to spare your father the shame of losing this contract."

"Instructions for what?"

"How to prove you are not as pathetic are you are so desperately trying to convince me you are."

Her disdain rankles more than the thought of a lost contract with a Sith, but he still bristles. "Whatever challenge you set me, I'm more than capable of beating."

"We shall see then, will we not?" And then she walks out of the cantina.

Galaar watches her back the entire way. Once she's out of sight, he gets up from the table in a single motion, scooping up the datapad and knocking his glass to the floor where it shatters.

* * *

When Galaar arrives at the coordinates, his armor is shining and perfect. He hadn't realized how much he'd let his armor slip. He'd had to tailor the interior more than… a little. The Sith didn't meet him at the door. Instead, a human in a military uniform, possibly a captain, let him inside the bunker-like building.

"Galaar Cerar. I am Captain Donno Wilks. My Lord Xalonie Sa'alle is expecting you." The man gives Galaar a shallow bow and leads him through the labyrinthine halls.

_Xalonie_. He repeats the name in his head, but even the thought just makes him grit his teeth. _She's beautiful, pale, where Nauur is dark, hard where she's soft, but even so…_ He lets the thought trail off. Whatever this test is, he can't afford to let _those_ kinds of thoughts invade his concentration.

"Cerar." Xalonie says with a nod. She's in the same military coat and mask, standing over a holotable laid out with some foreign planet's terrain.

"Sa'alle," Galaar replies.

She stares at him, eyes narrowed.

Eventually he gives her what she wants. "_Lord_ Sa'alle."

"Better." She gestures to the table. "This is our simulation table. Wilks will answer any questions regarding available forces, munitions and any pertinent information on the terrain."

Galaar looks between Xalonie and the captain for a moment and then removes his helmet, the hydraulics hissing quietly. If they realize the significance of the gesture, they say nothing, which just adds another twist to Galaar's anger at the Sith.

He focuses on the anger, uses it to hold back the cold dread brought on by situation. He had almost no practical experience with strategy, only late-night lessons with his father. At the time, he'd resisted, Cerar wasn't big enough for full scale invasion plans to be necessary.

[i]"You come to me, day after day, complaining that we don't do any real jobs. That it's shameful working for the Hutts and when I line something up for our people, you go and embarrass us and nearly talk the contract into non-existence."[/i]

The anger twists again, but with it also that damned attraction. He tore his gaze away from her blue eyes and focused on the game.

As Wilks walks him through the scenarios, he has no idea how well he's doing. He keeps glancing at Xalonie's face, trying to read something past the arrogance, but she betrays nothing. Galaar doesn't _think_ the losses are too bad, but he only knows Mandalorian standards, not whatever measure the Imps use where Mandalorians are nothing better than cannon fodder.

The two Imperial watchers never pressure him to make a decision, or give any input at all. After two hours, Galaar is tense and ready for this game to be over. He feels the pressure, but refuses to crack.

The scenario set in front of him is different from the previous ones. Where the others had losses of only one full company at most, this seemed… doomed for disaster no matter how he arranged the troops. Three companies to take such little ground; it isn't acceptable. He runs a hand through his short brown hair, attention almost fully locked on the scenario.

Almost.

He spins and catches the vibroblade aimed for his exposed neck with the back of his gauntlet. Before his attacker can react, he activates the hydraulics in his armor and nails the uniformed man with a heavy punch to the gut that sends him flying across the room.

He whirls to face Xalonie and the Captain, blaster in hand and flamethrower pointed in the direction he threw his assailant. "The _hell_ is wrong with you people?"

There's a beat before either of them move and then Xalonie leans forward and turns off the table. "Captain, I believe we have our answer. Inform Cerar's clan father we'll continue with the contract as planned." She pauses. "And do take Jilk to medical."

"Of course, My Lord." Wilks nods and throws the unconscious man over his shoulder. "I take it you will be… speaking… with our guest?"

"Yes; leave us."

Xalonie says nothing as Wilks leaves. Once he's through the door, she waves her and shuts it with a display of Force.

Galaar's gut twists again. This woman is definitely Sith. And definitely dangerous. He meets her eyes and then smirks. "Well, that was fun."

Xalonie moves across the room, but her gait can only be described by _stalking_. "Do you think so, Mandalorian?" She stares him straight in the eye, but touches his helmet with two gloved fingers.

"I do, especially since I got to prove you wrong."

"I think not. Were you completely hopeless, I would have left you drinking in that cantina." She whips her hair over her shoulder in a motion that reveals a slip of pale skin between her uniform collar and breathing mask.

"You didn't think I'd pass your test."

"You are still a reckless drunkard that speaks before he thinks and only puts the good of his clan first if it fits with his personal… _pride_." Her voice stresses the word, draws it out. She then moves her hand up and presses two fingers into his breastplate to ensure he gets the idea.

She's a head shorter than him, tiny and pale, but the air crackles around her with Force and Galaar feels it on his skin, even under his armor.

"Well, you're still a stuck up bitch who thinks entirely too much of herself."

"Oh, you do not have the slightest idea what I am capable of, Mandalorian."

Galaar moves closer to her, her spec ops coat brushing against his armor. "I have only your word for that. Personally, you seem awfully conceited."

She brings her hands up between them and claps politely. "You used a big word! I'm so proud of you."

"Oh shut up, you Sith bitch."

Xalonie pulls off her breather mask and sets it pointedly on his helmet. Her voice still emanates from it when she says. "Make me."

In that instant, he realizes that she's right. Galaar has no idea what she's capable of. Instead of giving him pause, however, it just solidifies his desire. He grabs her by the hair and slams his mouth down on hers. It lights the twisting knot that's been in his chest ever since Nauur left, it wrings out his insides in a way cantina trash never did.

He grabs her tighter, bends her back over the table. Her hand is in the collar of his armor, undoing the clasps no one outside the _Mando'ade_ should know how to open. From the side, he hears her mechanical voice, still from the mask.

"I am not impressed yet."


	5. Promises

Sa'alle gives Cerar even more than promised. Challenging jobs that not only tested his brothers to their limit, but with honorable motives on top of it. Cerar hops across the galaxy, fighting insurgents in Imperial territories and stamping out rebellion in the border planets. Not standard Imp fare, no, so much better.

Xalonie addresses his men directly, but not to give orders, only to explain the expectations of each mission. Despite her arrogance, she respects Galaar's authority over them. He stands in the back of the gathered fighters and listens to her talk.

"It should be unnecessary to mention at this point, but any caught harming civilians or civilian infrastructure will be punished under Imperial Law. We are not barbarians that need destroy cities to save them. If I wanted brute force, I would not have hired you. Tread carefully."

When she stalks back into her own bunker, Galaar walks through his part of the camp. The neatly piled supplies are carbon copies of those on the Imp side. Xalonie and her Sa'alle fortune are the best employers they've had in recent memory. He overheard some of his brothers talking about her honor and fierce participation in battle alongside her people.

He smirks, but it morphs into a predatory grin under his helmet. He tangles with her in way more than the battlefield. Galaar shivers, remembering their most recent tumble some two nights before. Unsuitable as she is for a _mando'ade_ like him, she is skilled and strong… in so many ways.

She brings him satisfaction in all parts of his life: especially work. He is enjoying himself for the first time since the trap mission that lead to Favar's death. Working with this employer, this Sith, finally gives him confidence that he'll be ready to take over the clan when Taldin passes it to him. Galaar controls the operations and missions while his father stays behind and works with their children, armorsmiths and other temporary non-combatants.

Xalonie didn't change. Proud, arrogant and so glaringly _dar'jetii_ in the way she held herself, but she is a fair commander like no other Sith ever had been. She and her men really mesh with Clan Cerar.

Some time later, he meets her in the command bunker, holding his helmet under his arm.

She is all business. "Have you read the briefing?"

"Yeah." He rubs his chin. "Relatively straight forward."

"The civilian populace will be significantly more… fractious than in previous assignments. The Imperial Overseer for this planet was a Sith who felt the need to regularly walk the streets and cut down any who obstructed his path." She prods the units on her war table and her brow furrows in a way that Galaar knows means she's frowning under her mask.

"So… A typical Sith." He raises an eyebrow at her.

She ignores the bait. "Egregiously destructive against the things we should be protecting."

Galaar reaches over and pulls down the datapad in her hands so she will look him in the eye. "What's your deal, anyway? You're the only _dar_\- Sith - I've encountered who gives a damn about the actual Empire. Let alone the people that work for her."

Xalonie pulls the datapad back up and taps the screen several times. When she answers, it's clear her full attention isn't on him. "The goal of every Sith is to become powerful. There is more power in loyalty and praise than in fear and anger." She shrugs and then lifts a hand to tap her breathing mask with two fingers. "The others underestimate the value of the common man. I strive for real strength, not the quicksilver power they gain from their wanton destruction."

"So you're different from the others. I already knew that." Galaar stretches his hand out to touch her hip, but changes his mind at the last moment. "I was asking _why_."

She clicks off the datapad and sets it down on the strategy table. Xalonie takes her time straightening it, stalling for time while she thinks of the proper answer. "I do not _delight_ in the pain of others. To do so is weak and disgusting. Siphoning the Force from another's pain is a crutch. I am not _weak_."

Galaar touches her this time, just a brush against her shoulder. "Every other Sith out there doesn't have a problem with it."

She straightens her posture in response and the air crackles with her Force. "That does not make me wrong. If another offer to you and your men to harm me, would you? No. Would the planets I've saved so easily turn against me? No." Xalonie touches the center of his breastplate with the tips of two fingers. "I understand the worth of things they cannot see."

"_Buir_'s always saying that honor is worth more than quick credits. Obviously he saw who you are, or he wouldn't have made another contract with the Empire after the last one." He closes his hand over her much smaller one.

"I looked into that affair. Nasty business. Intelligence had you flagged. It took… some Sa'alle leverage to push the contract through."

"And that's why you gave us a second chance after I made a fool of myself?" He lifts her hand and kisses the back of her gloved knuckles.

Xalonie pats his cheek before pulling her hand back. "Something like that. Regardless, Captain Wilks will be the figurehead for this operation, given their reasonable aversion to Sith. I do not expect it to be a problem, but do ensure that your men do not… Stress my importance unduly."

Galaar chuckles, low in chest. "Don't worry about them. They're going to be happy for a break from all of the My Lord-ing."

Xalonie quirks an eyebrow at him, but says nothing before swooping past him to the doorway. "I believe our _business_ is concluded until the morning." She doesn't wait for a response, just saunters away assuming he'll follow along to her tent.

* * *

"Gal?"

He looks up at the sound of his name. "What's up, Ty'lk?"

"Sa'alle is escorting someone through our camp," his father's lieutenant says, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

"She does that."

"It's a spec ops sniper."

Galaar lays down his datapad and stands. "I don't see a problem with that, but I'll check it out. You wouldn't say anything if it was nothing." He shifts towards the exit. "Anything in particular I should be looking for?"

"She was laughing." Ty'lk shivers and rubs his armor, as if it would brush the feeling away.

Eyes narrow, Galaar patrols through his clan's camp until he sees Xalonie standing shoulder to shoulder with a tall, blond man with a large rifle case strung across his back. She touches the stranger's shoulder with two fingers and the blond man turns and grins at her.

Galaar steps up behind them, taking no care to silence his movements. "Sa'alle."

"Ah, Cerar." She nods to him and then gestures. "Teric, this is Galaar Cerar, son of the clan father. Cerar, this is Teric Jannon, the best sniper in the Empire."

Teric laughs and touches the small of her back in an unthinking gesture. "You're too kind, Xal." He extends his other hand to Galaar. "Pleasure to meet you, Cerar. You keep a tight ship here. Makes me miss being part of a company."

"Do not miss it too much. We have gone on to better things," Xalonie says and suddenly the military coat she wears seems so much more significant.

Galaar pushes the thought to the back of his mind after he shakes Teric's hand. "Will you be assisting on the next mission?"

"Potentially. I'm still reviewing the target information. I have a few algorithms running, so I wanted to see what your men were capable of before making a decision." He shrugs, the black case shifting without effort.

"I can call up my sharpshooters if you'd like?" Galaar offers.

Teric fiddles with a datapad before passing it to Galaar. "Just these men, please. I don't need to see the others."

Galaar expects to see a list of names or dossiers, but instead the datapad has only five candid shots from around the camp. Galaar's eyebrow almost disappears into his hair at one choice. "Killian? Are you serious? He's an armorsmith."

Teric grins, wide and showing too many teeth. "I think he'll surprise you, Cerar."

Xalonie interrupts with a two-fingered touch to Teric's arm. "I will be expecting you _later_."

"Of course."

Galaar watches Xalonie trek back to the Imp side of the camp and then turns back to Teric. "Right, I'll have them right out."

* * *

Teric leans against an equipment crate as he watches his selected sharpshooters run through their paces. For all appearances, the spec ops sniper is bored and not paying attention, but Galaar knows better than to make assumptions.

Especially after Killian seemed to have a magic touch with the rifles. Galaar rubs the back of his neck and wishes he could take his helmet off and give it a good massage, but not with this outsider here. He wants to ask what the other man sees, but the words that come out of his mouth are, "So you and Sa'alle, eh?"

The sniper tilts his head this way and that, eyes still on the shooters. "Just for fun. I'm a Force Blind after all. We may have some history, but Sith are picky about that sort of thing. Kind of like Mandalorians."

Galaar thanks his T-visor for hiding his open mouthed stare. _I don't know what I was expecting, but_… "She doesn't come across as the prejudiced sort. We've been working with her for a few months."

"Not when it comes to getting work done, but Sa'alle's take the Force in their blood very seriously. Makes you wonder where the Moff fits into this." Teric shrugs.

"So her father's a Force Blind, but she finds that completely unacceptable."

"Something like that." Teric pushes off from the crate. "It's an interesting story; maybe she'll tell you if you ask nice. Anyway, barring some surprise from my algorithms your guys should have this. Just don't let the Imps know, they get so annoying when they're shown up by Mandalorians."

"You're an Imp, too, you know."

"Am I, Cerar?"

* * *

Galaar stretches out in Xalonie's bed. He could never justify purchasing a mattress this nice with his Mandalorian lifestyle, but it's nice to take advantage of the Sith's before she kicks him out. He nudges her foot with his ankle. "Do you ever stop working, Xalonie?"

She doesn't look up from her datapad, but her voice travels down from her mask hooked over the head board. "I could kick you out and then sleep, if you would prefer."

Galaar chuckles, even though the threat is real. "The Empire won't fall apart if you take a night off."

"The Sa'alles have a reputation to uphold."

"I think you do enough during the day, honestly. The Emperor should call you a hero for all the planets you save."

"One would think." She keeps her attention on the datapad, twitching her fingers every now and then in some motion Galaar still hasn't identified.

"The _alor_ and I are seeing something… differently. I've got a question for you that might make him understand."

She swipes her hand across the screen. "Are you going to ask, or are you going to hedge?"

"Both?" Galaar shrugs and rocks in the bed, enjoying the softness of the mattress. "Mandalorians take everything pretty seriously. Usually, anyhow. That makes him think that this," he waves between them, "is a conflict of interest."

Xalonie glances at him for just an instant, barely turning her head, before asking, "And what would you ask?"

"It's not really our business, of course, and I'm certainly not going to think any less of you…"

"Spit it out, Galaar."

He starts at the sound of his given name. "I know you're also with that sniper fellow, so the question is how many others?"

"And you think this number will put Taldin's mind at ease?"

Galaar shifts, uncomfortable. "You know how _mando'ade_ normally are with sex. My word alone isn't enough to convince him we're not planning something permanent."

"In addition to you, there are three others I see more or less regularly."

To keep from thinking about it too closely, Galaar whistles. "Lady, you've got a lot more stamina than me."

"I was not aware that was in question." She turns her head and actually grins at him. The expression seems foreign on her face, from the way it pulls the tattoos around her eyes to the, dare he think, _cute,_ dimples that formed on her cheeks.

He laughs, he can't not with her looking at him like that. "All right, all right. I'll work on him some more. It might take a while. You know how we are."

Her expression slowly turns sober, considering, not judging. "Yes. I do know how… _mando'ade_ are."

Galaar shivers at the word and then climbs out of her bed before he makes any mistakes. "I'll let you get your sleep, Little Ms. I Must Sleep Alone."

She hums in response, the only sound she makes with her own throat.


	6. Secrets

Galaar knows something is wrong before he even sets foot in Cerar's camp. The sounds are all wrong. He draws his blaster and crosses the invisible ward line, ducking into cover behind a supply crate and peering around the edge for danger.

"Drop it, Galaar Cerar." Captain Wilk's voice sounds before he materializes out from under the shielding cloak of a stealth generator. Him and a full half of Xalonie's squad appear, weapons aimed directly at him.

"What's this about?"

"Drop the blaster and disarm your armor's weapons systems."

"Like hell. There's no way I'm letting you hurt my brothers!" He fires his blaster, but the shot fizzles out against a shield generator before the light even gets out of arm's reach.

"If you and Taldin cooperate, nothing will happen to the others. These orders are from Lord Sa'alle directly. You know she is as good as her word," Wilks says from behind the safety of his shield. Coward.

"That bitch'll pay for this."

Wilks continued to stare at him until he disabled his blaster and set it on the ground at his feet. Under the watchful eyes of Sa'alle's men, he opened up the back of his gauntlet and disconnected the flamethrower.

"You assholes want me to tear my armor apart for weapons?"

Wilks shakes his head. "If you cooperate there is no need." He drops the official tone. "This whole mess is highly irregular, but she's liable to bring the mountain down on everyone if she doesn't get answers."

The other uniformed men nod their agreement.

Galaar looks at each of their faces in turn and sighs under his helmet. "Fine. Let's see what this is all about."

The group stays silent while they escort Galaar to the prison bunker. Just inside the door, he meets his father, surrounded by the rest of Xalonie's men.

"At least we know Sith can't spit fire, or everything would be ashes," Taldin quips.

"Do you know what this is about?" Galaar asks.

"No, but-" Before he can say anything else, thunderous slamming and the hot crackle of electricity meets their ears. "But I think we're about to find out."

Galaar and his father let the men escort them to the interrogation room where they sit on opposite sides of the room, clearly captives, but still armored, at least.

The door on the opposite side bursts off the hinges, fragments of superheated metal flying through the air. Xalonie stalks into the room, red hair billowing behind her. With a shout from her mask, she throws a man much larger than her to the floor in the center of the room. "I want an explanation, _now_."

Galaar stares at the man on the floor as he gasps and twitches from her excessive force and wonders what in the galaxy Xalonie thinks he knows about the stranger until…

Until he looks up. That's when Galaar's head snaps to his father and he wants answers just as badly.

Taldin slowly raises his hands and removes his helmet. He stares Xalonie in the eye while jerking his thumb at Galaar. "If he's not an imposter wearing my son's armor, I think we'd all like to know what's going on."

The man on the ground coughs and gets up to his knees. "Me, too."

Xalonie surges across the room and grabs the man by the neck, holding him up in the air. Without looking at him, she demands, "Remove your helmet, Galaar."

After a moment's hesitation Galaar does.

"By the _Force_ this is _not_ possible!" The man chokes out from Xalonie's grip.

"Clearly it is as there are _two_ of you! Answers! Now, Cerar!" She shouts from her mask before throwing Galaar's double onto the floor again.

"Sa'alle, look me in the eye. I've never seen him before in my life."

"I don't believe you."

"I wasn't there when Galaar was born. A week later, she shows up at our camp, hands me a baby, says, 'I don't need this' and leaves. That's all I know."

"_Oh_."

The man on the ground gets a lightsaber blade drawn against his neck for the outburst. "Do not test me, imposter."

"Hey, I'm not the imposter here." He points at Galaar. "He's not Force sensitive, so mother didn't need him."

Xalonie menaces him again, but he doesn't react. "Neither are you touched by the Force."

"Not anymore. I lost it saving the _real_ Sa'alle. _You're _the imposter here." He tilts his chin up at her and even on the ground, dirty and bruised, he emits the aura of a Sith.

Xalonie narrows her eyes, but doesn't lower her saber. "Are you trying to tell me that you are _Aaron_?"

"You're not a very good imposter if you can't even recognize your own husband."

"You are not a very good husband if you did not know your wife had a sister."

"She said she was the only heir!"

At that comment, Xalonie turns off her saber and returns the hilt to her belt. She gestures for her men to lower their weapons as well.

Galaar breathes a sigh of relief and rubs his neck, but doesn't say anything. _I want to know what's going on_.

"Sailens is dead."

Aaron coughs and looks away. "Well, not anymore. Like I said, I lost my connection to the Force to save her life."

"Clever bitch," Xalonie says, though she looks almost impressed. Before she can say anything else, a shadow detaches from the wall and from it a woman distractingly similar, though not identical to Xalonie, materializes.

"You called, Sister?"

"Enough dramatics. Cerar whelped the boys with Rencarn's slave threw out the useless one?"

Galaar bites back a comment about being useless.

The newcomer, Sailens, shrugs. "You kidnapped my husband. Why should I answer your questions?" She clicks her tongue at Xalonie, as if showing off. "And no calling and telling Mother. You know how she'd react."

"Do you give up your claim, then?" Xalonie asked, tilting her chin up.

"Have it. I have things worth more than that pathetic fortune." Sailens tosses her hair and then reaches down a hand to Galaar's… twin. "Come along Aaron. I imagine sister is going to need some alone time with her toys to sort this mess."

Aaron lets her lead him out through the ruined door, but his voice echoes back into the room. "Do you have to antagonize her further? What if she changes her mind?"

Silence reigns for only a moment before Xalonie turns her face away from Galaar and his father. "I do not like surprises. Your next task is to investigate this mess. I do not want to hear from you until you can promise you have no other security leaks loitering around the galaxy."

Galaar blinks at the doorway after she stalks out in a flash. He turns to his father. "So I guess I have a twin."

"Considering the circumstances, I'm not sure we can even blame Sa'alle for her reaction." Taldin runs a hand over his head. "I can barely wrap my mind around it."

"I think I'm going to keep believing Mom died in childbirth."

"Probably for the best."


	7. Major

Galaar tears his helmet off and carries it loose in one hand as he shoves his way to the medical bunker on the Imp's side of the encampment. Captain Wilks blocks his final steps. "This is none of your concern, Cerar. Return to your duties."

"None of my concern? She collapsed on the field!" Galaar raises his hand to shove Wilks out of the way when Xalonie's fabricated voice calls out.

"You're dismissed, Captain."

Wilks snarls, but moves out of the way before stalking out of the bunker.

Galaar doesn't waste any time moving to the side of Xalonie's medical bed. He picked up one of her tiny hands, pale and without gloves for once. "Are you all right? You just… dropped."

"It is only Force exhaustion. I need rest and-"

"It's not _just_ anything!" Galaar interrupts. "Have you seen yourself? You're white as bone. You couldn't speak aloud if you wanted to."

"I have never been able to spe-"

"That's not the point! You're the commander here. You can't do this to yourself." He shakes his head.

"Calm yourself, Galaar. _Had_ I fallen, you would have been in charge. Is this the face you would have presented?" She is giving him that look again, the considering one that was slowly eclipsing the arrogant sneer.

"Of course not. Everyone's safe now. I'm allowed to worry. I know you won't take care of yourself when there's work to do." He sinks into the too-small chair next to her medical cot. "How many machines are you hooked up to?"

She waves the question away, but the gesture just makes her seem weaker. "Their Force users have been dealt with. I am counting on you to complete this mission. Captain Wilks was none too happy with my choice. Doubtless why he attempted to waylay you."

"Wait, what? Me?"

"Yes. You helped create the strategy and Donno is too cautious. He plays the numbers, not motivation or guile." She closes her eyes and takes a breath that makes her entire body shake in its weakened state. "Under normal circumstances, he would voice no objection. With my condition, his jealousy has gotten the better of him." She presses two fingers into the soft wrist joint of his armor.

"Jealous," he says to himself. He blinks and stares at her. _So she was… with Wilks? But no more?_ A chill falls down his spine.

"He has long made his desire for a permanent arrangement clear. It was time for things to be made clear. He blames you because it simply cannot be _my_ choice." Her eyebrow twitches in annoyance.

"I see. Well, Captain Wilks is a professional. I'm sure there won't be any trouble." He works to hold his tongue against any incriminating comments.

"I agree. I simply wanted to inform you of the circumstances." She sighs, her chest shuddering again. "I will be available on comms should anything come up. I am only bedridden."

"Only," Galaar mutters before tucking the thin medical blanket around her shoulders. "I'm not going to tax you with field decisions. Try to relax. You know I'll take care of them."

"I know. There was no hesitation when I chose you." She is silent long enough Galaar considers leaving before she cracks a single eye open. "Do not think to recruit any of them. I spent years hand-picking my men."

He snorts and squeezes her hand gently. "They might be what passes for spec ops in the Empire, but they couldn't handle being _mando'ade_, anyway."

"That suits me just as well. Your gaggle of barbarians could never pass five minutes at a State event." She grinned and closed her eye. "Let alone as part of the Sa'alle entourage."

"As if we'd put ourselves through that torture." He touches the inside of her wrist with two fingers before pulling his hands away. "Get some sleep, Xalonie."

"I expect regular reports, Galaar."

"I know the drill…"

* * *

"Major."

Galaar hears the word, but it goes in one ear and straight out the other.

"_Major_," Wilks repeats, this time elbowing Galaar to get his attention.

"What?"

Wilks clears his throat. "I take it Lord Sa'alle did not mention it. You have been granted a field promotion to Major for the duration of this mission."

Galaar looks at Wilks as if he just sprouted a second head. "Sith can do that? I mean, obviously she can, since she did, but-"

Wilks coughs to hide the pride that takes over his face. "Most Sith simply assume command over the military, but Xalonie Sa'alle is a commissioned officer, trained at the Imperial Military Academy on Dromund Kaas." He gives Galaar a pointed look. "With Major Jannon."

"So she's a… what?"

"Colonel."

"I… Well, I already knew she was impressive."

"Of course. If we could…"

"Right, sure."

"Here's the new intel." Wilks held the large datapad up for Galaar to see. "In summary, we either leave behind one of your men, or we fail."

"Why does it have to be- Oh, I see, yes." Galaar rubs the back of his neck and scrolls through the information. He glances at Wilks, but the Captain is looking through the window of the command bunker out to the Mandalorian side of the camp.

"Switching the attacking forces just leads to further casualties. I hate asking a man to die, but the alternative is more deaths."

"No, no, you're right." Galaar sighs and looks out at his men, as well. "I imagine there's no way to detonate the charges remotely?"

"Not with the signal jammers. _Our_ signal jammers that is. If we lift them… Well, you know the consequences of that."

"I trust your calculations, Captain. I'm just trying to… not have to deal with this." Galaar knocks his gauntlet against his greaves in frustration. "There has to be something… What kind of ignition are we putting on the charges? If it's just a button, why not leave a droid to push it?"

"The only droids we have are the specialized models in the medical bunker."

Galaar narrows his eyes and scrolls through the resources again. "Sorry, it looks like Jakra _forgot_ to mention his probes to your quartermaster. I'll have a talk with him about that after the mission. If he doesn't offer himself up to keep them in one piece. Seriously, he's worse than a parent with those things."

"Surely you're not serious. They're just metal."

Galaar shrugs. "Everyone has something they can't afford to lose."

"I suppose, Major. Give the orders. I will keep you appraised of the situation." Wilks lingers, even though the "meeting" is clearly over.

"...Yes, Captain?"

"The loyalty of the men of this unit to her is in the same vein as you and yours. Hurt her and there is no place in the galaxy where you can hide."

"I think she'd rather take care of those matters herself."

"This isn't a game, Cerar."

"Mandalorians don't take things like this lightly."

"Your reputation says otherwise."

"We all grow up sometime, don't we?"


	8. Names

"Obviously that Aaron person was my twin, but I thought you were the only Sa'alle heir. The records only show one daughter," he says. Galaar lounges on the stiff couch in Xalonie's personal office, ostensibly waiting to hear about the next mission.

"Lord Sa'alle the Elder has three daughters, at least three that I know of. If Sailens knows of others, she has not said. The three that I know of are all illegitimate, born of Sith fathers despite Sa'alle being married to the Moff. We were taught that each of us was the one true heir. The last woman standing would be."

"And Sailens is out of the running because she's presumed dead?" He doesn't ask what she thinks of her sister being married to his twin. Doesn't want her to suspect the thoughts he thinks when they lay together.

"Yes, though she never stood much of a chance. Lord Sa'alle oversaw her Force training personally. The torture was frequent." Xalonie rubs the jaw of her mask. "However, I may have gained too much power too quickly. She has begun to… watch."

"Isn't that good, though? You want her to see that you are the best one to take over the family."

"Yes, but if she thinks I will become more powerful than her… She may attempt to kill me before that happens."

Galaar shakes his head. "I don't understand you _dar'jetii_."

"Most live by the Sith Code. Is that so different from your _resol'nare_?"

He bites his tongue to keep from asking where she learned the proper pronunciation. "How about, I don't understand _you_."

"We do not live in the same galaxy, Gal."

"Being different is what makes life interesting, Xal."

She sets down her datapad and stares him in the eye for a long time. "That may be true."

* * *

"You have impressed me," Xalonie says as she leads him through the crowded streets of Kaas City. Her military coat and his armor doesn't afford them as wide of a berth as Sith robes would have, but he prefers it this way.

"If that's true, why is my reward being forced to spend time in this hellhole? Nar has less corruption."

She turns so that he can see her roll her eyes, but she doesn't break stride. At length, they reach a tall, unmarked building. Xalonie swipes a keycard and then punches in a ten-digit code. Once inside, they enter a large elevator and wait as it goes up… and up… and up.

"Are all of the buildings here pointlessly large? I get it; we're supposed to be intimidated."

"You can go back, if you wish." The elevator stops and Galaar follows her.

She leads him to the only door where she places her bare palm on a bioscanner. With a quiet snickt, the door opens. However, she doesn't let him in. Instead she stops just inside the door. "Put your hand just there."

Galaar works the clasps on his gauntlet for a moment before pressing his bare palm to the scanner. When the machine dings, he removes his hand.

She holds the door open for him. "There, you will be able to get in now." Xalonie then stuffs a keycard into his hand. "I will teach you the code for the door later."

"And all of this security is for..?"

"My home, such as it is."

Galaar looks around. Expensive furniture, but with no personal trappings or decoration. He steps up to the windows that stood instead of walls. Dromund Kaas rain pounds against the glass, but no sound permeates the apartment. He looks over his shoulder at her. "Another way you're different from most _dar'jetii_. They'd have stuffed this place with trophies, luxurious, a severed head or two."

She rolls her eyes, but Galaar can see the top edges of her dimples poking out from under her mask. Xalonie beckons him away from the window.

He follows her down the hall. His feet sink into plush carpet when she leads him into an opulent bedroom.

As soon as she's past the threshold, Xalonie tosses her military coat off with a single motion, no doubt aided by the Force. Galaar would know with how much he struggles to get it off her at times. She literally kicks her boots off and they hit the wall with a thunk. Her mask follows and then she jumps backwards to splay herself across the duvet.

"So you can enjoy things."

"I do indulge in some luxuries. They are simply only things I find useful."

"Oh yes, you do use your bed for all kinds of things." He jerks his thumb at the bedroom door. "But if you're still going to kick me out after, I don't know why you went through the trouble to give me the key."

"In this place, I will not ask you to leave."

Suddenly too warm, Galaar works his gauntlets off and clicks through most of the other clasps. He drops the armor pieces on the carpet with the same carelessness she used. Once he's in his cloth underarmor, he steps up to the bed. "I have a hard time believing you brought me here to _sleep_ with you."

She smirks, but it lacks the old arrogance. "This is a place you can come when you need peace. Whether I am here or not."

"Me? I'm just your mercenary dog."

"You know that is not true. And I suspect after today your father may take exception." She twists a strand of hair around her fingers while she waits for his response.

Galaar suspects he knows what she means, but he doesn't let himself hope. "Take exception to what?"

She touches his arm with just two fingers. "To you being the only one."

In a surge of motion, Galaar bends over her and slams his mouth to hers. He fists his hand in her hair and breathes a single word against her lips. "_Cyare_."

With the Force augmenting her natural strength, she drags him onto the bed with her. Her voice still comes from her mask on the floor. "Am I not too _burk'yc_?"

Galaar takes a minute to catch his breath. "No, _cyare_, you're just dangerous enough."

* * *

_Resol'nare_ \- The Six Paths, the "code" Mandalorians live by.

_Cyare_\- affectionate pet name, meaning roughly, "the only one I love."

_Burk'yc- _dangerous


	9. Quicksand

Something shifts after that night. Galaar feels like they are working together rather than him just taking orders. It's hard to wrap his mind around her priorities; _mando'ade_ don't keep permanent settlements and almost all of what Xalonie does is protect and reinforce them.

"I didn't expect your men to take so well to… Following my orders," he says one evening when they are holed up together in the command bunker.

"You should be no more surprised than that your men follow mine. They are professionals. We have proven ourselves in combat and in strategy, why would they not follow?" Xalonie shrugs and scratches at her neck underneath her mask.

"I guess I just never imagined a _dar'jetii_ like you existed."

"Then your imagination leaves some to be desired."

* * *

"You know, Xal, you can still command with a broken leg," Galaar says from the large arm chair in her Kaas City apartment.

"Indeed. However, I am using it as an excuse to give my men… a vacation of sorts. Things have been tense and no one has applied for leave. I simply took matters into my own hands." Xalonie answers from the far side of a datapad, but this one contains a substanceless holonovel rather than work.

"So you broke your leg on purpose."

"I simply seized the _balac_ when I saw it." She tosses the datapad onto the glass surface of her coffee table. "_Balac_. Opportunity. Saves a few syllables."

As usual, Galaar's skin warms when he hears the _mando'a_ from her. He's teaching her the language in bits and pieces, in between hints of culture and the secrets they don't tell outsiders. Galaar knows what he wants is impossible, but he plans to push it as far as she'll let him.

"It would be more useful if I could actually use it," Xalonie says, meeting his eyes across the table.

"Using it as an outsider is… an insult. Like _duraan_. Even my _vod_ would question if you started speaking _mando'a._" He rubs the back of his head, trying to push the internal struggle down.

"I know. It is merely a complaint." Xalonie pulls her mask off and drops it on the table. "You thought me completely ignorant of the language before."

Galaar shrugs. "I suspected you knew something. You called the _alor_ the clan father rather than clan leader. There were a few other hints."

"And that is what piqued your… personal interest in me?" She raises an eyebrow.

"No, that was how much I hated you. I wanted to see you taken down a peg. _Rohak_. Defeated." He licks his lips. "Part of me still wants to see you on your knees."

She smirks and lets out a huffing sound Galaar knows is as close to a laugh as she can manage.

As much as he likes entertaining her, the sound sobers him. "How did you lose your _jorad_? I've also wanted to hear your voice."

Xalonie doesn't answer right away. She checks her chrono and then waves him away. "It is midday. You should eat." She holds out her hand and after a moment a small package floats in from the other room.

Galaar turns away from the show of Force and grabs one of the prepared lunches out of her kitchen. _These are here just for me. Without asking, she… took care of it. Planned for me to be here_. When he returns to the living room, he sits beside her and watches as she connects a tube from a bag of nutritional supplements to a port hidden under the bracer she never removes.

"What happened, Xal?"

"The story is that I cried too much. Just as the story is that I am the sole heir. She silences us. Uses this," she gestured to her arm, "as a point of control. Sa'alle developed a ritual enacted before birth to cause this. Only Sa'alle knows how to reverse it."

"That's abhorrent."

"I know."

"_Someone_ needs to kill that bitch." He presses two fingers into the back of her hand to make it clear who he's suggesting.

"Do not be daft, Gal."

"We've killed Lords before."

"Sa'alle is not just a Lord of the Sith. She has a private army and connections throughout the Sith hierarchy." Xalonie shakes her head. "I would not put the _aliit_ in her path."

"You wouldn't have to. They'd volunteer. With her out of the way, you'd be the Matriarch. That'd be good for us."

"Not with everyone dead!" She yanks the tubing out of her arm and throws it across the room. Then, she holds up her hand, which glows a soft purple before she touches it to his temple.

Galaar flinches away from the initial touch, but lets her the second time.

"Sa'alle heads a human supremacy council. They will rally behind her and _enjoy_ slaughtering a Mandalorian Clan. Their disdain for your people is palpable."

He grabs her hand as she pulls it back. "What did you do to me? My head feels…"

"I used the Force to protect the memory. If a Sith pulled it from your mind, it would put you in danger, but you needed to know."

"Is that why you let her keep you locked in her _mircin_? You shouldn't be caged, _cyare_."

"Through power my chains will be broken."

"You're better than that _dar'jetii_ nonsense. And like I said, all of Cerar will fight for you." He hesitates, but then puts his arm around her tiny shoulders anyway.

"Fighting Sith is not like fighting Jedi. The words may be opposites in _mando'a_, but the reality of the thing is so different." She shakes her head. "I forbid you from getting involved."

"You said yourself that if she started to fear you she'd come after us. We at least need to be prepared."

"And what if those preparations tip the scales?"

"_Cyare_, when you're in the volcano, it's too late to say you're afraid of fire." He brushes a few strands of fire red hair behind her ear.

"Do not say that to me in the same breath you call me _cyare_."

Galaar feels ice in his stomach. If she understands the hypocrisy of the name… "So… you know."

She shakes her head. "I can teach them to fight _dar'jetii_, but we will not face Sa'alle."

"You're right. I just… want to make everything right for you."

She pulls out of his arms and stands. "Eat your food."

"Look, is… this… going to be a problem?" He can't help but remember Nauur's reaction to his revelation. And Xalonie knows what he's meant by _cyare_…

"That depends on your expectations, does it not?"

Galaar doesn't know what she means, doesn't want to ask. _What is she thinking? Marriage? Children? Joining the Clan? It could be anything._ "Right."

He watches her leave the room and then finishes the meal. He drops the trash in the kitchen for the cleaning droid to take care of and then pokes his head into her bedroom. From the threshold, he can hear the shower running, so Galaar just lays on her bed to wait.

When she finally joins him, it's different than before. She knows how he feels and accepts it, even if she doesn't return it. She _knows_, so he lets it out, whispers to her in _mando'a_, all of the things he wants to say

He falls asleep in her bed and as he's drifting off, he hears her whisper "_Cyare_" in the back of his mind, but it's a dream. It's just a voice he knows is hers, but not from her mask. Maybe he's wishing too hard.

* * *

_duraan_ \- look down upon, hold in contempt

_jorad_ \- voice

_mircin_ \- cage


	10. Broken

Lord Sybil Sa'alle jams a needle in Xalonie's neck. She crumples to the ground and when her body hits, blood spurts out of her mouth.

Galaar lunges towards her, murmuring updates in his subvocals. His hands hover over her body as she twitches from residual Force lightning currents. "Don't die, _cyare_, not like this. We need you."

"Ah, the little Mandalorian brat. You and your people are such useful space trash," Lord Sybil Sa'alle crows. She laughs at him, seems to feed off of his pain. She probably does.

"What did you do to her, Sith?"

"I just ensured that you'll get no information from her _body_. I can't exactly let my secrets out, now can I?"

Galaar fires a round from his blaster, but the Sith knocks it away with a casual swish of her lightsaber.

Sybil waves her hand in a sharp gesture and Galaar's helmet tears off his face. She takes one look at him and laughs even harder. "Oh this is lovely. I know you, boy. Rencarn's reject. And you loved her so much, didn't you? Did you know it was all empty? All for nothing? She could never be the wife to a blood-tainted mongrel like you."

"I don't care! You're so full of fear and Sith paranoia you'd torture and kill your own daughter, for what? For bringing strength to your house?" He crouches over Xalonie's body, hears her involuntary noises of pain. At least she's still alive. _Hurry up, Wilks_.

"She overstepped her bounds. She needed to be stopped." Sybil straightens her gold-embroidered silk robes.

"You'll never be satisfied, you crazy bitch." _Hurry up!_

"I have more daughters and I'll have as many more as I need until I find a suitable one." She shrugs. "Besides, I _wanted_ this planet in chaos. It has things I need. She shouldn't have interfered with my business."

"If you'd waited a week, she could have gotten you whatever you wanted for free! They'd have been falling over themselves to make her happy!"

"I didn't _want_ her happy."

Galaar doesn't answer with words, he just aims his flamethrower at her.

She waves away the fire without effort, red saber blade hissing in the humid air.

He expected that and so fired a volley of tranquilizers from his other arm. Sybil easily side steps and then throws a handful of Force lightning at Xalonie's crumpled form.

Galaar curls over her, taking the full blast against his back, his armor doing almost nothing to hold back the pain. He pivots back to face his attacker, but she's gone. Slowly, he turns and lowers himself to his knees over Xalonie. He presses his forehead against her temple and feels the tears dripping from his eyes.

"Oh _cyare_, I can't lose you like this. You were right. You knew she'd do this. I'm sorry. Help's coming, I promise. Just wait. Just a little more." He rubs her cheek with the back of his hand. There's so much blood. Too much. It seeps into the ground all around him and he feels his knees sink.

"We'll figure this out. I promise. I won't let her take you." He squeezes his eyes shut. "You just escaped the _mircin_. You're going to be fine."

* * *

By the time the medivac team gets them back to the compound, Galaar is swaying and delirious. Aside from some from Force lightning burns, he's fine, physically. However, the shock from Xalonie's… injuries weighs on him.

"Major."

Galaar winces at what the title implies. "What, Captain?"

Wilk's face is lined with pain and concern, but he tries to keep his tone professional. Mostly succeeds. "I've forwarded you the final reports from my men. Jakra reports no major injuries. We lost about 25% of our allocated supplies for this mission, but nothing crippling."

"Successful retreat then?"

"Such as it could be, given the circumstances. Sybil Sa'alle has… already made an announcement. Additionally, as… executor of… Xalonie's estate, she has dissolved the contract."

"Right now? You want me to deal with that _right now_?"

"She might be dead on paper, but she still breathes before us! Would you shame her by forsaking your duty?"

The words cut like a knife and he forms a response in his head. It dies on his lips when he looks at the Captain's face, however. _That's right. Wilks loves her, too._ "Dissolved contract or no, we're still paid until we leave the surface, which isn't until after medical-"

He jumps when a red-haired Sith steps out of the medical bunker to meet the gurney. His blaster is in hand and half-charged before Wilks pulls his arm down. "The fight's over, Cerar."

Galaar looks down at Xalonie, still writhing and twitching and _bleeding_ despite being pumped full of kolto and sedatives. "Not for her."

"Stay back. I'll do what I can," the mysterious Sith says.

Galaar grabs the edge of the gurney, determined to stay with her, but the strange Sith forcefully guides him into a chair. "Sleep, boy. If there is anything to be done, it will be."

Galaar tries to argue, but then there's a push on his mind. He bares his teeth at the Sith, but that's all he manages before falling asleep.


	11. Ripples

When he wakes, Galaar feels bandages on his back and neck. He groans and shifts, hearing the tell-tale creak from the medbay cot. He opens his eyes and sees the ceiling of their large transport ship. _We've already left that hope-forsaken planet, then_.

He rolls to his side before the memories can paralyze him and sees Xalonie on the bed next to him. Not dead and covered with a sheet, no. Hooked up to some 15 beeping and whirring machines, but gloriously alive. "_Cyare_." He rasps the word out.

She doesn't respond. Not that she could with the oxygen mask covering her face and her speaking one no where to be seen.

He stretches his hand across the same gap and grabs her fingers. Cool, but not cold. He squeezes them and while she doesn't respond, there's some measure of resistance.

The door opens with a hiss and Taldin comes in. Rather than commenting, he simply shoves Galaar's cot flush with hers.

"What did they say, _buir_?"

Taldin takes his time responding: he pulls up a chair and looks at his son. "She should wake up in a day or two, but… Look at her neck."

Galaar brushes her hair away and sees the injection mark Sybil left. The immediate site is a sickly green and the color only expands outward, spider webbing up her chin and across her face under the oxygen mask. "What is it?"

"_Dar'jetii_ evil. More than that, I don't know. That mysterious one that showed up is Sailens's father. Said Xalonie was family, even if not blood. Whatever she got pricked with is messing her up pretty badly. Trying to undo the original _dar'jetii_ evil her mother did to her. Look, I don't know, but it's not good."

"It doesn't matter. She's _alive_." He squeezes her hand.

"I know you-" Taldin stops and tries again. "The clan has to come first."

"What are you implying, _buir_? I know they do. We didn't challenge Sa'alle, she made it her business after the fact."

"Your involvement with Xalonie is dangerous. This is proof."

"Proof that this _dar'jetii_ evil is limited to them! No one else was hurt. Not even the Imps."

"_You_ got hurt. You need to know when to take a step back and retreat. Sa'alle could have killed you without trying." Taldin shakes his head. "You are _alor'ad_, you can't-"

"I can't leave my people behind! If I'd run away she would have died. I can take a little electricity."

"You don't have a responsibility to her. You have one to this clan. We can't afford to get in the middle of a feud between _dar'jetii_."

"Xalonie is the best employer we've ever had. We're bound by contract _and_ honor to keep her safe."

"The _aliit_ is more important-"

"Just stop. I know what this is about. Don't pretend. If I had run, our men would have yelled for my blood and called me _dar'manda_. This isn't about the clan, this is about your legacy." Galaar realizes he's shouting only once he's said the last word and he turns to make sure Xalonie's still asleep.

"You can't think straight with your heart making the decisions."

"If she was _mando'ade_-"

"She's not. And she never will be. She doesn't even _want_ to be _aliit_. Stop pretending."

Galaar sighs. "I'm not going to go on some quest for vengeance, _buir_. Fighting Sybil Sa'alle won't help anyone."

"You need a wife."

"I have one."

The words hang in the air between them and Galaar wouldn't take them back if he could. _If she dies, I could never be with anyone else. Even at the height of my infatuation with Nauur, I could accept moving on if she died. Not this time._

"You thought you loved-"

"This is different and you know it."

"Saying something doesn't make it true, Galaar. Even if you want it."

"If she was awake, she wouldn't say I was lying."

"If she were awake she wouldn't even know who you were!"

"_What_?" Galaar feels a wave of cold wash over him. "What do you mean she wouldn't know who I was?"

Taldin shakes his head. "I wanted you to end this before you found out." His father lets out a deep breath that shakes his whole body. "That _dar'jetii_ wasn't sure of much, but he was convinced her memory would be gone. It's the only way to protect Sa'alle's secrets."

"I… That…" Galaar looks down at her tiny hand in his.

"He took over the contract, too. He didn't want to leave her, or us, I guess, with unfinished business. The Captain said he'd be around in a few days to discuss the plans with you."

* * *

Galaar is there when she wakes up as someone else. In full armor, he leans against the wall, watching the sniper Teric Jannon and Captain Wilks teach her about her past. Every day breaks his heart a little more. He hopes the doe-eyed innocent look will leave her face once she gets the chip implanted to speak again, but even the droid's monotone reflects the complete lack of _dar'jetii_ in her.

Every word is a test to his patience. He wants to grab the speaker droid out of the air and smash it into the floor, but he resists. He can't bear to make the process any harder on her.

Galaar throws himself into his work. Between him and the Captain, they have almost a full list of jobs Xalonie wanted done. It wears him to the bone, but he still spends every night laying awake his mind whirling with memories of her.

In the little down time Taldin forces him to take, he spends every minute with her, mostly watching from afar with an aching weight in his chest.

Some weeks later, she approaches him of her own volition.

"...Galaar?"

He spins and takes her gently by the shoulders. "You remember me?"

"Yes," she says, but the innocent, lost-fawn look still marrs her face. "From the other day, not, um, from before."

He releases her, snapping back his hands, as if burned. "Right. Of course not. Sorry about that."

"It's okay, but you should sit down," she says. She wrings her hands, the left tinged with the green _dar'jetii_ poison that just keeps spreading.

When she doesn't spit it out, Galaar tries to make conversation. "I heard my father calling you _Lalat_. Do you know what that means?"

"He explained once I threatened him for laughing at his 'private' joke. I don't mind it so much, though. It's nice to have a name from someone who cares about you." She shrugs and starts pacing, waving for him to sit.

"Ah, well, yeah, I guess they would tell you what happened with Sa'alle." Galaar takes a seat and raises an eyebrow at her. "Is something wrong? I mean, other than the obvious." He looks away from her exposed face.

She paces back and forth in front of him. "I don't have my memories, but I have most of my _knowledge_ from before. Facts. Statistics. Things like that."

Galaar does his best not to wince at her uncharacteristic use of contractions. He nods.

"Yes, well, without everything going on in my head, I can _sense_ things better. Sense the _Force_ better." She stops and looks him in the eye. "You're not like the others, Galaar. There's Force in you. I can feel it."

"That's not- Look, before you were injured, you cast some kind of Force spell on me. You're just sensing that."

"I'm _not_." She waves her hand for emphasis and her mouth curls into a tight frown, clearly visible now that she uses a hovering droid to speak. "That would be localized, or fading, this is constant, all over."

Galaar shakes his head and stands. "You're wrong. Look, what that woman did really messed you up-"

"I am without memories, not stupid. Sit, Cerar! You can't deny and run from this anymore than you can from me."

"I don't know what you're talking about." He tries to brush past her, but she blocks him with a wall of solid energy.

"You're not always wearing the T-visor. I can see the way you look at me. I know _someone_ taught me _mando'a_."

"Yes, I taught you, and everything that implies, but that doesn't make me a sensitive. You- She kept mentioning she wished I was, but I'm not. I'm no more Force sensitive than you-_she_ was _mando'ade_."

Xalonie grabs his wrist, hard and stares into his face, her mouth set in a firm, familiar line.

His heart breaks again, seeing the woman he loves in this poisoned shell. Galaar shakes her hand off and walks out.


	12. Avalanche

"So…" Galaar says to Wilks as they watch their combined men form up for the next job. "Since the Colonel is… dead… why haven't you and your men been reassigned? I know Lord Aucht has been bankrolling Cerar, but does he have the leverage to keep a spec ops team on?"

"Of course not. We're under Major Jannon's command now."

Galaar rubs the back of his helmet. "Isn't he just a sniper?"

Wilks tilts his head to the side. "Rumor says he has Intelligence connections. I never ask too many questions in these circumstances."

"Wise."

They say nothing else and Galaar's thought drift back to his last conversation with his father.

_Give yourself more credit. I'm not surprised things are going well,_ Taldin said. _You can learn strategy, no one can teach leadership. It's more than just Cerar that'll follow you into the abyss, _ad_._

He shakes the memory away and gives the signal to move out. The Imps are securing the perimeter and while he and an infiltration team break in and set the charges in the rebellion base. He stands at the back of the room, watching his men set the charges. Simple. Routine. But something picks at the back of his mind. It feels like his armor is a half-size too small and something just _niggles_ and he can't shake it off.

"Timer's set. Out we get." Jakra says, his probe droids circling his shoulders.

Galaar signalled the movement, but stood still himself, staring at the far wall. He looks at the timer ticking down and time seems to slow, each number burning into his skull as they change.

Jakra opens the comm line to repeat his warning to Galaar, but the _alor'ad_ shouts through the connection instead. "Get back in here! Deactivate the charges. Now!"

Though confused, his men sprint back into the room and deactivate the timer. Galaar ignores their bustle and walks slowly up to the wall. He places his hand against it… and then pulls it back before slamming a hydraulic-powered fist through it. The false wall grumbles around his fist and he starts tearing at it with both hands, his men joining in without instruction.

"Refugees." He breathes the word out as a huddling mass of dirty, skinny people is revealed. He clears his throat. "We need medical and evac teams in here," he orders Wilks.

Shaking under his armor, he walks out of the facility and into the dying dusk light. Jakra follows him and visibly shakes himself once they're outside. "How'd you know they were there? We almost slaughtered a bunch of innocents!"

Galaar didn't have an answer. "Just… gut instinct, I guess."

Jakra claps him on the shoulder. "If your guts stays _that_ good, you'll be the next Mandalore."

Xalonie's claims of his Force sensitivity prevent him from finding anymore humor the comment. _If she's right, it's more like the next Demagol..._

* * *

"Hey Xa- Lalat. Are you… okay? You're looking… more green, but also kind of less?" Galaar isn't sure how to act around her.

"Lord Aucht thinks the poison has almost finished running its course. I am so much weaker than when I first woke, but at least I am alive." She runs her hands over her arms, as if it would wipe the color away.

"If it was supposed to hide Sa'alle's techniques, it's pretty terrible. I mean, it's been weeks. If we'd wanted to extract _dar'jetii_ secrets from you, we could have done it by now."

She shrugs. "I am not dead, though. Maybe it works differently in a corpse."

Galaar struggles in the wave of emotions that sentence brings. "I… Yeah. You're probably right."

"I am not dead, Galaar."

"I _know_."

"And having the Force doesn't make you Demagol."

He whips his head to face her so quickly his neck hurts. "Don't bring him up."

"You cannot run from this. Even if it was not in you, it _would_ have been in any child you had with her." She has her hands on her hips as she lectures.

"She- we-" Galaar shakes his head, at loss. "It doesn't matter now. I could never be with anyone else."

She touches him, then, her open palm against the center of his breastplate.

Galaar looks in her eyes and sees only pride and determination. His mind plays back a reel of the conversation: her speech pattern is almost it was before. His lungs burn with every breath as the temptation scorches him.

"You wouldn't be with anyone else, Gal."

A howl of grief tears itself from his throat. "Stop. Please. You're not her. I'll accept the Force in me, but please, just… leave me alone." He staggers out of the room before she can protest.

* * *

"_Cyare_."

Galaar hears the name in the quiet of his mind. It stirs him from his dreams, but only because it makes him remember. His heart tightens in his chest and he thrashes, trying to push the pain away.

"_Cyare_." Louder, more insistent.

He snaps his eyes open to break the spell, but the nightmare refuses to end. Xalonie, Lalat, _his cyare_ stares down at him in the dim predawn light in his quarters. He swallows the lump in his throat to keep from crying and brushes her hair out of her face while waiting for the vision to fade.

"Gal. It truly is me. I _remember_." She touches his cheek, just under his eye, with only two fingers.

He holds his breath, suddenly unwilling to let this vision fade. This kind of torture is new, but he can't bring himself to end it.

"This is not a dream, _di'kut_, stop staring as if I will disappear." She grins, wide and wicked. "Unless I am too _burk'yc_ to be your _cyare_ anymore."

Galaar pulls her mouth down over his before she finishes the last word. Face held tight to hers, he shifts in his bed until she's laid out on top of him. When he breaks their kiss, it's just to hold her face against his. He feels his tears press against her skin. "I missed you, _cyare_."

"Why miss me? _Mhi solus dar'tome_."

He holds his eyes tightly closed to keep from sobbing. "Stop talking, _cyare,_ I don't think my heart can handle anymore."

* * *

_Mhi solus dar'tome_. - We are one when parted. (Significance being that this is the second line in Mandalorian marriage "vows" which need only be said by both parties for them to be married in Mandalorian culture.)


	13. Eventualities

Dawn light filters through the small, utilitarian window in Galaar's room. The rays stretch across the bed, highlighting Xalonie's pale skin. Her neck and shoulder are still tinged with green spider-webbing, but just having her laid next to him erases any unease the discoloration would normally cause.

She stirs awake when he brushes her arm with the back of his knuckles. "Is it morning already?" Her voice comes from a round droid now, instead of the mask, but Galaar is already used to hearing it in unusual places.

"It is, _cyare_, and you finally came back to me." He presses his forehead against hers and then wraps his arms around her, pulling her against him. "I missed you."

"Barely a day passed for me," she shakes her head. "But it has been weeks for you."

"You don't… remember what happened between losing your memory and getting it back?"

"Bits and pieces. The _alor_ started called me Lalat. It is… nice to have a name given out of affection for once." She laces her fingers through his and holds his hand.

"I'm sure the guys would enjoy that. I don't think they were brave enough to do it without your say-so even if you didn't have your memories." He kisses her temple. "And since you're legally dead in the Empire, you're due for a new name, anyway."

She nods, but says nothing.

"_Cyare_, there's also, well, what are you… going to do now that you're 'dead?' You can't exactly go back to being a military Sith."

She tilts her head to look him in the eye. "I thought my plans were obvious."

"I just- That is-"

"_Mhi solus tome. Mhi solus dar'tome. Mhi me'dinul ahn. Mhi ba'juri verde_."

Galaar repeats the words of binding, of _marriage_, back to her in a rush, not even stopping for breath. Afterwards, he takes her face in both of his hands and kisses her gently. He speaks against her lips. "When you said it last night, I thought you were just saying. Not that you- That we-"

"Xalonie is dead. I am no longer trapped in her cage."

"_Cin'vhetin, cyare_, that's our word for it. Your old life is gone. All that you are starts when you become _mando'ad_."

"Technically, I still need to be adopted."

Galaar laughs. "Do you really want to talk about this now? Here?"

"I am Force sensitive, Gal. We cannot pretend it will be easy. Your brothers accepted me as a commander, but as _vod_? It asks a great deal."

Galaar runs his fingers through her hair. "They love you. More importantly, they trust you. No one outside of Cerar has to know. As long as you don't suggest something like Demagol, there won't be a problem."

"Demagol?"

"...You don't know who Demagol is? But when you didn't have your memories, you…"

She touches his arm with two fingers. "You are thinking about it too hard. I am sure I _know_ who that is, but with all of my memories, it is not important, so I cannot recall."

"Right. That would make sense. Well, he was… He did bad things. Experiments with _mando'ade_ and Force users. It was… a dark time for us." He pushes his face against hers. "I don't want to talk about him when I finally have you back."

"Of course not, Gal." She strokes his cheek and ruffles his hair.

Another thought strikes him. "You're calling me Gal, but last night you woke me by calling me _cyare_..?"

She narrows her eyes at him, confusion twisting her brow. "You heard that?"

"Yeah, that's why I woke up."

"Gal, _cyare_, I was speaking to you with the Force. You should not have been able to hear that."

"...Unless I was Force sensitive?"

"Yes, but you are not. I checked." Lalat presses one of her palms against his chest and the other on his temple. "...This is simply not possible."

"Who you were without your memories, she said I was Force sensitive. That I couldn't run from it."

She shakes her head. "You are. Barely. You were not before. I would have told you." Lalat takes his hands in her tiny ones. "There is nothing to fear,_ cyare_. She was right. You cannot ignore this, but are you not alone."

"Our children. They would have it, too."

"Maybe. Gal, remember you were born to be Force sensitive and by some chance were not."

"But _you_ are so strong!"

"Not anymore." She rubs her left arm, far more tainted by the Sith poison than the right. "Most of my power came from Sa'alle's rituals. That power is now gone." Lalat squeezes his hands. "Unless they were strong in the Force, we need not worry. All I am is better with a vibroblade than any of our _vod_ could hope to be."

"The thought of… having the Force is… It's frightening."

"We will deal with it together, _cyare_."

"I don't know… All of this, Lalat. It's all new and foreign. I love you. I've loved you, but I never thought it would last, let alone that you would…"

"Get it out now. We will need to be arrogant and self-assured when we have them. If we are not confident in our ability to handle it, they will not be comfortable with it."

"You're right. You're wonderful. Perfect." He hugs her tightly. "Wilks and I will finish up the work you had planned and then we're free. Completely, utterly free."

* * *

_Mhi solus tome. Mhi solus dar'tome. Mhi me'dinul ahn. Mhi ba'juri verde_. - We are one when together. We are one when parted. We share all. We will raise warriors. (This is the entirety of the Mandalorian "marriage vows" as mentioned in the previous chapter.)


End file.
